Effie Trinket, Wild One
by katrinawritesstuff
Summary: The many monikers of Effie Trinket. Things start to get violent between Effie and Haymitch after he inadvertently re-opens her old wounds. Sex, violence, coarse language-this fic has it all!


"**Effie Trinket, Wild One"**

Effie carefully set out the cutlery for the pre-Games dinner, being sure to assemble the spoons in the correct order. It had been Makeela's job to set the table, but the red-headed Avox girl was nowhere in sight. Other Capitol folk claimed Avoxes were an unreliable lot, and small wonder: When your servant class came from the ranks of the traitors and the perjurers, how could you expect them to be trustworthy? It wasn't a belief Effie personally subscribed to; frankly, she found the whole practice disturbing—_speak your mind, forfeit your tongue? Really? What of freedom of speech, a value once cherished by this fine country?_ Certainly, there were dangerous dissidents out there with a lot of silly ideas. And certainly, if what they were saying about the government was indeed slanderous or libellous or defamatory, then the Capitol was perfectly within its rights to take legal action against these seditious cretins. But Effie could not, for the life of her, see how _cutting off a person's tongue_ did anything other than fan the flames of hatred against the Capitol—especially in the less well-to-do Districts. Besides, it was horrendously cruel. Imagine that: Never being able to talk again. Never being able to lick an ice-cream cone in the heat of summer. Never being able to kiss someone, _really_ kiss them, not just a chaste little perfunctory peck but _hungrily_, open-mouthed. Never being able to scream out your lover's name in a fit of passion…

Effie blushed as she noticed Haymitch staring at her from the lounge, where he sat slouched with his legs astride, using his slight paunch as a shelf for his bottle of whiskey. Their eyes locked and for a split-second, Effie froze like a deer in headlights. _He knows. Good Zeus, he knows what I'm thinking! _She averted her eyes quickly, felt her cheeks growing hotter. She took a few deep breaths to calm down, and tried to talk some sense into herself. _Of _course_ he can't hear your thoughts. Silly girl—get a hold of yourself, already! There are brick walls more intuitive than that man._ Relieved by this self-talk, Effie's lips curled into an embarrassed smile. The old drunk, a mind-reader? The thought was obviously ridiculous. In fact, Haymitch Abernathy was among the least empathic people Effie had ever met, the sort of person who'd see no problem with walking up to a friend with two broken legs while they were still in their hospital bed and asking if he could borrow their skis. Did he know what she was thinking? No, of course he didn't. He hadn't a clue what was going on inside her head, and thank Zeus for that, too.

Still. She did wish he'd stop staring at her like that. Repulsive man!

Not entirely satisfied with her work on the trays, or perhaps just looking for an excuse to avoid interacting with the sozzled scoundrel on the lounge, Effie set about re-arranging some of the dishes in a more aesthetically-pleasing manner. She knew that other Capitol folk considered this self-abasing, servant work, but Effie didn't mind it. She had never minded dull, repetitive tasks—after all, life couldn't be all glitz and glamour _all_ the time, and these things needed to be done. _Someone_ had to carry out the practical, behind-the-scenes stuff. Sure, there was no glory in any of this, but really, who but the most desperate of people really needed to have their egos stroked for doing what was simply necessary? Knowing you'd done your job and done it well was thanks enough, in Effie's mind. What was that her teacher had once called her when she was a girl? _Effie Trinket, Master Organiser._ Yes, that was it. That was what she was: A Master of The Minutiae, of Matters Mundane. Well, no shame in that!

As she worked, she felt a disquieting sense of being observed. She snuck a surreptitious glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, Haymitch was still watching her, staring at her with his typical expression of blank bovine stupidity. She rolled her eyes. Goodness, what was his _problem_, anyway? She knew he thought her uptight, fastidious, a real stick-in-the-mud. She knew this because he'd said as much, when she'd been chaperoning last year's pair of tributes and made the mistake of forbidding them to go up on the roof. "Oh, you mustn't go up _there,"_ she'd said, admittedly a touch too abruptly, when the two had enquired about the matter. Haymitch had overheard, and much to Effie's dismay, immediately sought to undermine her: _"Oh, you mustn't go up _there," he mimicked her nasal Capitol accent in an obnoxious whine, rolling his eyes as he shot the kids a conspiratorial grin. "If they wanna go onto the roof, let 'em go," he'd said gruffly, nonchalantly waving his hand. "Not like they can top 'emselves, what with the force-field and all, now can they?" Then, to the tributes: "Run along, kiddies. It'll be the last bit of fun you have before they strip you naked, rub coal into your privates and send you off to the slaughter." The kids both shot smug looks at Effie before scurrying off. In that moment, Effie had felt her cheeks flush with humiliation. He was always doing that, Haymitch was, always turning her into a figure of ridicule in front of the tributes and her fellow Capitol officials and every other bloody person she had the misfortune of encountering while in his presence. _Wretched drunk! Foul-mouthed, horrible…aaargh! _Effie had been livid. After all, she was only trying to protect them. How was she to know they'd activated the force-field early this year? She'd never had a tribute under her care commit suicide before, and she wasn't about to bloody start now. She knew that people would tell her she was foolish to worry about this; weren't those kids just going to get themselves bumped off in the Arena, anyway? And yet: Somewhere, deep down in her heart, Effie sincerely believed that she could protect them. If they just followed her advice and stayed out of sight, if Haymitch just delivered the first aid at just the right moment—it was possible for them to make it out alive.

Escorting District Twelvers and watching them die year after year was a sobering experience. It should've disabused her of these fanciful survival notions she'd clung to for so many years like barnacle to rock. It had, mostly. But there was still a part of her that yearned to believe the impossible. How else was she to give these children any hope? Privately though, Effie had to admit to herself that these fantasies were not merely the children's security blanket. They were hers, too.

It was infuriating, really. She cared _so bloody much _about her tributes, and how did they repay her? By mocking her behind her back. By mimicking her voice, in the most annoying and shrill way imaginable. By referring to her as 'Effie Wet Blanket, Fun Police' (thanks for that, Mr. Abernathy). How could she give them life-saving advice when they didn't trust her, didn't respect her? When she'd told Haymitch (in one of his rare sober moments) how much she truly resented being made fun of all the time, he'd just laughed and said, "Hey, we're sorry, right Love? You know we're just kidding around with that 'Wet Blanket' stuff, eh? Those kids like you just fine, Ms. Trinket." Honestly. What disingenuous crap! _If you were _really _sorry you wouldn't be laughing about it_, she'd fumed bitterly to herself. Why couldn't he see how much he was damaging her chances of connecting with the tributes? Effie was fairly isolated in her government job; she networked constantly, but her connections were so fleeting, so superficial. She yearned to bond more deeply with people, to revel in the security of constant companionship. She hadn't been romantically involved with anyone in years.

It was hard sometimes, her life. It was lonely. Nasty jibes and perpetual sneery put-downs didn't help.

He was still staring at her, the stupid oaf. Effie couldn't take it any longer. _"What!"_she snapped irritably, shooting him daggers over her shoulder. "What do you _want,_ Haymitch?"

The ferocity of the question delivered an electric shock to Haymitch's usual languid repose. His eyes widened in surprise, and he sat up straighter. He cleared his throat, retrieved his startled eyebrows from his hairline. "Well, since you asked, I'd really like it if you took that carrot out of your ass for a while, Sweetheart." He gave a wry smile and patted the lounge cushion. "C'mere. Sit down. _Relax_, fer Chrissakes."

Effie hadn't expected that reply, but she supposed she was used to Haymitch's crudity._ "Someone_ has to get things done around here," she muttered coldly. She turned around and met his gaze. "If you'd like to come and assist me, Haymitch, you're most welcome to. If not, I'd prefer it if you just kept quiet and didn't bother me. Thanks for that." As she turned her back to him, she felt an overwhelming surge of emotion and her lower lip trembled. Perhaps it was her natural susceptibility to PMT, but Effie _was_feeling unusually fragile tonight. Uncharacteristically so; Effie Trinket was the type of woman who wasn't given to big emotional displays, and in fact found such theatrics disturbing—honestly, was all that crying and blubbering really necessary? It was so distasteful, so _undignified._ She wanted to shake the woman—it was invariably a woman, although she'd seen some men succumb to the Blue Monster, too—and tell her to get a grip on herself, already! Stop reinforcing the patriarchal image of women as collapsible creatures prone to hysteria. Effie had taken a few Gender Studies units at university back in the day; she knew how men perceived women and she was determined to provide a living counterpoint: An image of consummate professionalism, genial and comradely yet always aloof, and resolutely unemotional. The intensity of this sudden frailty was so unexpected, what was going on? It wasn't PMT—her period wasn't due for another couple of weeks—so what was happening to her?

"Okay, I'm here. Helping out, as you requested." Effie nearly leapt out of her skin. Haymitch had come up behind her with a plate of hors d'ouvres, and was clumsily pushing aside some of the soup dishes in order to make room for them. "Where you reckon these should go? Here? On second thought, maybe there's more room over there…"

"Oh, _stop it_, will you! You nearly spilled some of the pumpkin soup! Haymitch, just…just cut it out, will you? You're ruining everything!" She blew a wayward curl out of her eyes, flustered now. Goodness, he was like a little boy! And he'd completely wrecked her curations. Oh, it was useless! She couldn't really blame him, she supposed. She was hopeless under pressure, always screwing things up. She remembered a speech she'd given in front of her class in fifth grade. The principal had been visiting the class that day. She'd been so nervous she'd wet her pants, in front of the teacher and the other kids and the principal, everyone. The humiliation had been unbearable. Thereafter she seemed to have acquired a reputation for liquefying under pressure. 'Silly girls, weak as water,' some of the boys had taunted. Whenever another public speaking event came along it seemed as if everyone was watching her with baited breath: "She's gonna pee her pants again!" "Naw, I reckon she's gonna _cry."_ She'd acquired another nickname, too: "Effie Tinklet." It was by far the one she despised most, even more so than Haymitch's watery moniker. Wet blanket, indeed.

"I was only trying to help," he murmured gruffly. Maybe it was her imagination, but Effie detected a note of hurt in his voice. "Unless you want me to go sit back on the couch and not bother you again?" His tone was slightly snide, but again, she perceived a wounded undercurrent.

She took a deep breath. "No, you should stay," she said firmly. Then, more gently: "Haymitch, look: I'm sorry I've been so snappish with you. It's just that it's nearly 7 o'clock; the tributes are due to arrive any minute, and I really want to get things looking perfect for them."

Haymitch laughed. "You clearly haven't heard the latest, Love."

What was he talking about? Effie gave him a questioning look. "What do you mean?"

"After Flickerman's interview, the bus that was supposed to be ferrying them back to this hotel completely gave out. Capitol transit authorities are sending out a replacement bus, but that won't be for another couple of hours. They'll get here at nine o'clock, I reckon. Which is fine by me: Gives us another couple of hours without a pair of rascals to look after, eh?" He took a swig from his bottle of whiskey.

This news surprised her. Effie shook her head. "That can't be true," she said haughtily. "Surely, Games officials would've contacted me on my cell—!"

"They contacted _me_ on my cell, Love," Haymitch chuckled.

"But…but…" Effie was trying to wrap her head around this. "Why would they call _you? _You're just their mentor. _I'm_ their point of contact, _I'm_ the Tribute Liaison Officer for District 12—"

"Is your cell switched on?" He was giving her his cocky, Cheshire Cat-like grin.

She marched out of the dining area and into the lounge-room, promptly seizing the cell phone lying beside her handbag on the mantelpiece. "_Of course_ it's switched on!" Effie soon realised that her phone was not, in fact, switched on; she'd left it on all day and the battery had gone dead. She blushed furiously and surreptitiously slipped the phone into the side pouch of her handbag. She hoped the amount of rouge on her cheeks would disguise the natural creep of crimson, which was spreading wider by the second like a rash.

Haymitch had wandered into lounge-room. "Well, I don't think you need to do any more food arranging," he said diplomatically. "You've done a pretty nice job there, I reckon."

Effie gave a modest laugh. "No, I'm terrible. I get so flustered under pressure. The dinner's okay, but it could be better. Some of the plates are a bit of a mess, really."

Haymitch gave her a look that was both bemused and speculative, like she was an unusual puzzle he was trying to figure out. "You're right," he said finally. "You _are _terrible."

His words struck her like a physical slap. "I beg your pardon?" she asked. She was hurt, and a little incredulous. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean,_ Ms. Trinket, that you're stuck up. Prudish. Self-righteous. Tighter than a fish's asshole, most of the time. And you can never admit when you're wrong." Realising he'd left the whiskey in the dining room, Haymitch uncorked the bottle of red wine that sat invitingly on the small table in front of the couch, and poured some into one of the tall glasses. He drained it with one sip.

Effie could feel the fragility start to take her over. Normally, when people insulted her, she remained completely composed: _"I'm sorry you feel that way,"_ she'd say stiffly, before turning her back on them and simply resuming whatever it was she was engaged in. _What other people think of me is none of my business_, Effie thought. They were entitled to their opinions, but she'd prefer it if they could please keep those opinions to themselves. And if they didn't, well, she would just ignore them.

But not this time. This time, she found she actually wanted to hear him out, hear what he had to say about her. But she felt she'd need some liquid courage to assist with this. She strode over to the table, seized the bottle of wine Haymitch had just opened, and filled the nearest glass to the brim. She tossed her head back and downed it all in nearly a single gulp. "Well, that's a very unflattering portrait you've painted of me," she said in a controlled voice, steeling herself. "Why do you dislike me so?"

Haymitch laughed. "Oh, I never said I _disliked _you, Ms. Trinket. Used to, oh boy. Used to dislike you quite a bit; even hate you. You were always so priggish and proper—looked like you'd never had a good lay or let your hair down before in your life. And the way you were always carrying on about having to work with District Twelvers—pissed me right off, that did. I thought, "Who the fuck does this stuck-up bird think she is? _Capitol bitch." _

Effie bit her lower lip hard to keep it from trembling. She poured herself another glass of wine.

"That's what I _used_ to think about you. Then I saw you at last year's post-Games celebration party. Do you remember that?"

Effie shook her head.

He gave a hearty chuckle. "Small wonder. Drunk as a skunk, you were."

_Oh. Oh goodness. He's right._ Effie suddenly remembered: She'd consumed entirely too much alcohol that first half of the night, and consequently spent the second half with her head down the toilet, grotesquely vomiting up her stomach contents. Someone had been with her that night. Gently holding her hair back. Telling her she'd be alright as she sobbed out traumatic memories from her past. _No, it couldn't have been…_

"I…I do, actually. I do remember."

"Effie," he said softly, calling her by name for the first time since—well, Effie didn't think he'd _ever_ called her by her first name. "Do you remember why you drank so much?"

She did.

It had been because of the tributes, the way they'd been killed in the Arena. Watching them get bludgeoned to death by a horrid pack of Careers brought back painful memories from her own life. Thirteen years ago, her beloved husband had been murdered in the exact same way while on a government trip to the Districts. He had been visiting District Twelve when one of the residents rushed up to him and smashed an axe into his face. _"Capitol pig!"_ the man had screamed hysterically at him. It was later revealed that the man's daughter had been a tribute the previous year—needless to say, she had not been victorious. Effie had been made into a widow at age thirty-two. Her husband would never be able to share a life with her, never grow old with her. Worst of all, he would never be able to see their firstborn child, whom Effie was pregnant with at the time. She'd checked herself into a Family Planning clinic and had the matter taken care of a week later. She couldn't bring the child into the world, knowing that she'd be reminded of its father every time she looked into its eyes; it was too painful, too much.

Her husband, a mere two years older than she, had had his young life snatched away from him by a man driven insane by his own grief. After that, Effie quit her job as a P.A. and became a District Liaison Officer—a chaperone to child tributes. She resolved that she would help the teenagers in her care in whatever way she could; that she'd prevent at least one set of parents from having to suffer the anguish she'd witnessed in that man's eyes on that nightmare of a day, an anguish she herself knew painfully well. It was a cruel irony that they'd given her District Twelve. Still, she told herself she wouldn't hold it against the kids—she'd seen the dead look in the eyes of people who'd lived their lives consumed by hatred. That was no way to live.

Haymitch was looking at her with sadness now, and Effie really wanted to hit him. She didn't need pity from this man. She didn't need anyone's pity.

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. She shot him a look of pure poison and immediately jerked her wrist free, and he gave a despondent sigh and sauntered back into the dining room to retrieve the bottle of whiskey. She leaned forward, elbows boring into her knees as her intertwined fingers formed a precarious pyramid for her chin, the Worrier's Pose.

Haymitch came back into the lounge-room and plonked himself beside her on the couch, making sure to keep a bit of distance between them. He gingerly set the whiskey bottle down on the table and the two of them sat in silence for a few moments.

"You've been to hell and back, haven't you?" he said finally. His gaze never faltered.

She mumbled something under her breath, head still bowed.

"What was that?" he asked softly.

Her head suddenly jerked up and twisted in his direction, and she gave a hollow laugh. "I _said,"_ she began snidely, a cruel smile twitching at the corners of her mouth, "why should _you_ care what happened to a Capitol bitch like me, Haymitch?"

Now it was Haymitch's turn to look startled. He appeared lost for words. "Well, I…uh…" He had been unprepared for this. He scratched the back of his head, shifted his weight uncomfortably.

Effie saw her chance to inflict some damage and seized it with both hands. "I mean," she laughed coldly, "my kind is responsible for screwing your life up. Isn't that right?"

Haymitch was silent, but his face betrayed his hurt. _Good,_ Effie thought to herself. _Let's see how you like a taste of your own medicine. _

She climbed to her feet, regarded him regally from beneath half-lowered lids. "You're a _joke_, Haymitch Abernathy," she sneered. "The laughingstock of your pathetic District. And do you know who made you that way?"

"I did!" he growled. "Fine. You've made your point. I'm a useless drunk. I fucked my own life up, and I accept responsibility for that."

Effie laughed and shook her head in mock-despair. "Oh, Haymitch. Haymitch, Haymitch, _Haymitch_." She stooped slightly and leaned in to him, lightly stroked his cheek with the back of her hand, tilting her head to one side and giving him a smile that was tender and patronising and sad all at once. "You're wrong, as usual. Silly man!" She then leaned in closer, her lips mere centimetres away from his ear, and whispered, _"I_ fucked your life up, _Sweetheart._ It was _me_ who made you what you are." She straightened up and broke into a fit of giggles then, horrible, drunken giggles, and drained her third glass of wine.

He shook his head, disgusted. "Bullshit," he snarled. "I don't understand what the fuck you're on about, Effie."

"Oh, really? Well, maybe even a drunkard like you can understand this: _I'm_ the reason two children from your district die every year. Every year for the past ten years, in fact! That's, let's see…" She pretended to give it some thought. "Twenty dead children. And two more this year, no doubt. How exciting!"

"Stop it, Effie. Just fucking _stop."_

"Oh, but that's not _all_ I'm responsible for." Her eyes had an awful gleam in them. "I also liaise with the Head Game-maker, you know. Did you know that?"

Haymitch shook his head. He hadn't known that.

"Do you know what I say," she asked, "when old Craney tells me about the latest sadistic trap he's cooked up and he's clearly fishing for compliments? I don't dissuade him, you know. I don't say, 'Oh Seneca, that's absolutely _horrid_, how _could _you!'" She gave another mirthless laugh. "To the contrary. I encourage him. I _praise_ his terrible creations, praise him as if he were a boy bringing a drawing home from school, and not a grown man devising the most effective way to get children disembowelling each other." Another gulp of wine. _"Oh Seneca, you're wonderful, you're so talented, _I say. It's _my_ fault those children die in such gruesome ways. Mine!" The vehemence in her voice was frightening.

Haymitch climbed to his feet suddenly, eyes ablaze with fury. "Effie, fucking _stop! _You're drunk, you don't know what you're saying."

"Oh, but I _do_ know, Haymitch. I've known all along. And yet, I continue doing it. Cheerfully, even. Year after year. Killing kids from your district. Complimenting the people who kill them in increasingly vile ways. Some Capitol bitch just like me once reaped you, once reaped Maysilee. You should hate me." When delivering this last assertion, her once-strident voice trembled.

Haymitch shook his head, his expression pained. "I don't hate you, Effie."

"You should." No more kidding around now. It was time to bring out the big guns._ "Come on,_ Haymitch! You have so many reasons to! I kill children from District 12! I praise _others_ who kill children from District 12!" Her eyes flashed. "I killed your whole family! Or people like me did, anyway. And you know what? We don't _care._ After all, who in the Capitol really gives a damn about anyone in _District 12?"_ She leaned in close to him, whispering: "Your family isn't worth _shit _to us."

He grabbed her around the neck and slammed her up against the wall.

"Yeah? How about I kill _you_ then, bitch? I'll strangle you, _I'll—"_ He had both hands wrapped around her throat now. His face had gone a dark shade of red, matching the red capillaries in his eyes. An angry vein throbbed in his temple, pulsating with hatred. His hands tightened around her neck. Each squeeze seemed to transfer the malice from her body to his hands, and in its place left a kind of fear Effie hadn't felt in years. Fear the world as she knew it was slowly being obliterated, and she was powerless to stop it.

_Shit. I've really done it this time, haven't I? _She gazed into Haymitch's eyes—there was nowhere else to look, really—and felt so intensely sad that even if he hadn't been strangling her she'd find it hard to breathe, even if he didn't succeed in killing her she'd still appear dead to all the world. Her eyes grew wet with the tears that refused to run down her cheeks, as dammed up as the breath that couldn't escape her lips_._

_Effie Trinket, Shit-Stirrer._ She was a goner, she knew it. There was no saving her now.

"I'll fucking kill you, I will…" As she stared into his eyes, frightened and pale, Haymitch's grip gradually loosened. An almost-unperceivable inner shift seemed to have occurred, and he gave her small body a powerful slam against the wall before releasing her from his grip. Effie dropped to the floor like a ragdoll, gasping desperately for air. Haymitch turned his back on her and stalked out of the room. But he didn't turn fast enough. She saw his face crease.

Effie sat rocking against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest in a state of shock. The impact of what he'd just done to her was slowly spreading throughout her body like a sickness. It hadn't quite reached her mind though, and when it did the virus she now understood were her emotions destroyed her defences completely, and she sobbed uncontrollably without restraint.

_Oh it's all my fault what have I done if only I hadn't pushed him. _

She felt like a little girl again, sobbing in her room as she listened to her father use her mother as a punching bag. The middle of four girls, Effie's two older sisters had held her tight in their arms as they stroked her curls, whispering to her that they'd keep her safe, that everything would be alright. Now there was no-one to keep her safe, no-one to comfort her.

Years later, when she was an adult, Effie had asked her mother why she put up with it, why she didn't just leave. Her mother had shrugged. "When two people repel each other, but can't live without each other, co-dependency is love's adhesive." And: "It gave me a sense of power, you know. To goad him. Make him lose it. I didn't have much power in my life, but I did have the power to make your father respond emotionally to me. And when he did, horrifying as it was, I didn't just have power–I had proof he still loved me." Effie had turned around and walked out of the room then, disgusted. It had seemed, at the time, like such an embarrassing admission, such an immature way of existing. Deriving your sense of self-worth entirely from others' reactions to you; goading them with your poor behaviour like a stupid child. Manipulating their feelings for your own self-esteem. But for the first time, Effie could see the sense in her mother's words. For hadn't she done exactly that with Haymitch just now? Pushed him and provoked him to hurt him as deeply as his callous words often hurt her, in order to have even the tiniest bit of proof that her words mattered, that _she_ mattered? Yes. She had. She understood that now. As an adult, she'd also come to understand why her mother had stayed–that when she'd heard her mother's moans in the middle of the night, they weren't moans of pain. They were proof.

Effie removed her cumbersome wig, took off her ghastly stilettos, and crawled onto the couch. She was really crying now, the tears causing her mascara to run down in a series of thick black streaks, the white foundation making her face resemble a cracked egg. She thought about how cruel she'd been. _He didn't deserve that_, she thought. _I _am_ a heartless Capitol bitch. Oh, why didn't he just kill me? _

Haymitch stumbled back into the lounge then, looking bedraggled. It was probably the first time Effie had seen him without a bottle of grog welded to one of his hands. She started trembling again. What was he going to do to her?

His eyes were wet, his face contorted into a ghoulish grimace of pain. "Effie, oh fuck Effie, I'm so, so sorry," he gasped. His eyes shone. "You never let me finish. I said I thought you were just another frigid Capitol bitch, another prissy little twat who didn't give two damp shits about anyone but herself." He swallowed hard and stumbled over to the couch, then swayed slightly before dropping clumsily in front of her on his knees. "I _thought_ that Effie, and you know what? I was wrong. You do care. You care about those kids, and after that night, when you told me about your life and I realised how fucked it was, how much shit you'd been through, I knew it was all a ruse. All that, 'this is going to be so exciting!' bullshit, all that 'You're in for a big big day!' crap. You don't believe a word of it, do you? It's self, uh, it's self-preservation, isn't it? Just like me and my bottle." He shook his head, laughing.

"I've been such a fucking asshole, Effie. Holding that against you. I thought all that naive, let's-all-play-nice crap you spouted meant you were just another spoilt Capitol princess who didn't have a fucking clue, but you're not. You're _nothing_ like those wankers. You _do_ know what it's like to suffer. You'll probably hate me for saying this Effie, or laugh in my face, but I don't think we're so different. You and me. We've both had our lives fucked over. We've both lost people we loved. We both cope with it in really unhealthy ways. And we're both completely fucking mental." More sad laughter. Haymitch wiped his eyes.

"Anyway, before I get out of your face, I just want to tell you I'm sorry for being such a bastard to you, and..." He swallowed. "I'm so, so sorry for what I did to you earlier, oh Effie, I promise I'll never hurt you again. You're an extraordinary woman. One of the most amazing I've ever met."

Effie leaned forward and kissed him hard on the lips. It had been completely impulsive, not something she'd planned at all. But there it was. She'd done it, and she couldn't take it back now. She stared at him intently, longingly.

Haymitch Abernathy wasn't the most empathic man around, but he knew what that look meant. He reciprocated her desire ardently, pushing his tongue into her mouth, and their lips moved together hungrily.

When they finally parted, they looked at one another in wonder, Adam and Eve with their newfound knowledge. With one difference: the discovery these two made brought them no shame, only freedom.

Haymitch started laughing then, and so did Effie. It was hysterical laughter; cathartic. He swept her up into his arms, carrying her like an infant, and started the shaky trek out of the lounge and down the hall to the bedroom.

"Haymitch, put me down! You're drunk, you'll drop me!" Effie giggled. It was a fairly half-hearted protest. She _was _a bit worried he'd drop her, though; Effie was small but no longer slim, and Haymitch wasn't really in a state to be lifting anyone. But surprisingly, he managed to carry her all the way to the bedroom without letting her go. When they reached their destination, he heaved her onto the bed and then gradually eased his body on top of hers, and their lips moved together again. Clumsily, they discarded the clothing on the lower half of their bodies.

Effie had been with Capitol men before, but they hadn't excited her like Haymitch did. Men from the Capitol were too effeminate, too sexless. She knew some women went wild over thatpretty-boy, androgynous look—eye-liner, lustrous hair, perfectly sculpted cheekbones, etc.—but it wasn't for her. It was too girlish, and Effie was resolutely, unequivocally heterosexual. She needed a masculine man, textbook issue: Tall, muscular, broad-shouldered; a man who could hold her down and fuck her perm straight one minute, and then sensually kiss her neck the next. Her husband had been like that, a Capitol man who was built like a District Seven lumberjack. They'd had a wild sex life before he'd met with his unfortunate end. It hadn't been particularly unusual or out-there, but it had certainly been satisfying: Equal parts rough and sensual, a good balance, just how she liked it.

But not tonight. Tonight, she wanted to tip the scales in favour of the rough side.

She grabbed his hair, stared into his eyes intensely. "Fuck me, Haymitch. Fuck me hard."

His eyes widened momentarily in surprise. He hesitated for a second or two, seeming uncertain. But he did as she requested, flipping her onto her stomach, pulling her hindquarters up and aggressively taking her from behind. Pleasure and pain cracked her wide open, and Effie moaned loudly.

As he thrust into her with just the slightest hint of violence, his fingers reached clumsily around her front to fondle her swollen clit. This gesture reminded her of her husband's deft ministrations, and at that moment, Effie imagined him sitting on the armchair in the corner of the room, watching her and Haymitch make love. _"Having fun, darling?"_ her husband's ghost asked her. He appeared bemused.

_Yes, oh GOD, YES. More than I've had in a long, long time. Please don't hate me._

He smiled. He seemed happy for her, or maybe Effie was just trying to assuage her own guilt. _"I would never hate you, Darling. Enjoy yourself." _

Haymitch gave another thrust and Effie cried out again. He leaned over and whispered in her ear: "You're tropical, Ms. Trinket: Hot and wet." Effie giggled, gasped breathlessly. Suddenly, remembering her husband, her head snapped in the direction of the chair in the corner of the room. It was empty.

When Haymitch finally came, emitting a loud, guttural groan, the pair of them collapsed back onto the bed, breathing hard. They rolled over onto their sides to face one another, and Haymitch lightly stroked the side of her face with the back of his hand. For the longest time they said nothing, just stared into each other's eyes in silent wonder.

Then, finally, Effie murmured something softly.

"What's that?" Haymitch asked, edging closer.

"I said, 'I really, really, _really_ like sex.'"

Haymitch laughed with relief, shook his head and gave her ass a hard, affectionate squeeze. "No shit, Sweetheart."

Over his shoulder, Effie caught sight of the digital clock on the nightstand: 8:45. Only fifteen minutes to get themselves up and respectable before the tributes arrived. For some strange reason, Effie didn't feel any sense of urgency, didn't feel like the world was going to end if she didn't act _this minute_. For once in her life, looking respectable didn't seem so important.

Haymitch put his lips against her ear and whispered: "I love that you love to fuck. You're not a good little Capitol girl at all, are you?" He gave her a knowing smile. "You're a wild one, Ms. Trinket."

His words reached down between her legs as easily as his fingers had done minutes earlier, and Effie felt herself grow wet again. _Effie Trinket, Wild One._ She smiled to herself. She liked this one best.


End file.
